autumn leaves

I sometimes find myself out of synch with the seasons.

Like last week when I had to talk myself out of making spaghetti with jalapeno tomato sauce— a simple, summery sauce of barely cooked ripe tomatoes— because it was November.

Or, like yesterday, when I booked a holiday cocktail party and my head filled up with visions of sugarplums and other wintry fare.

Today, the rake calls. It's all about the leaves.

Raking leaves is definitely not my ideal of fun. But like all chores, once I find a rhythm, it becomes meditative. Not today though— I'm too preoccupied with cocktail parties… and hors d'oeuvres.

Cocktail parties prevail in the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years. To my clients, a few hours of drinks and passed hors d'oeuvres means that they can entertain without the stress of formal dinner parties. There are no expansive (or expensive) menus, multiple place settings, or seating arrangements to deal with— just a well-stocked bar, a tasty selection of finger foods, and a capable staff to serve and execute.

I've seen a lot of hors d'oeuvre trends come and go in 20 years of catering. The once popular notion that anything wrapped in pastry or made in miniature was de rigueur is long gone. Modern tastes favor lighter fare with clean, bright flavors. (That said, I welcome the occasional request for pigs-in-a-blanket and sliders)

Presentation, too, has come a long way. I remember etched silver trays with elaborate floral arrangements complete with trailing ivy that the servers carried around like bouquets. The food became lost in these. Nowadays, I aim for vibrant food, simply arranged on white porcelain platters. When the food lacks visual interest, I don't hesitate to add something to the plate— but only if it makes sense and adheres to the philosophy that nothing belongs on a plate of food that is not edible, functional, or relevant.

As I tackle the leaves, I think about canapes and how they're a fitting model for the perfect hors d'oeuvre.

Canapes cover a broad range of foods that we eat with our fingers. They run the gamut from basic cheese and crackers to the old-school French vol-au-vents and barquettes. In between are smörgås (open-faced sandwiches), crostini, and savory tarts. Their common denominator is a dry, crisp base that makes them neat and easy to pick up and eat, and a moist, often creamy, topping. The textural contrast between the two— dry and wet, crisp and creamy— are a basic gustatory pleasure and primed for an update.

Cheese & Crackers

goat cheese on carrot-beet-parsnip crisps

And as the leaves pile up, I think, again, about crisp.

How to reinterpret cheese and crackers?
Start with the cracker and add flavor.

Crackers are basically flour, water, and fat. Certainly, doughs can be flavored with concentrated liquids or with dried flavor in modest amounts, but these introduced flavors are often muted by the large ratio of flour that is required to produce a crisp product. If the ratios are thrown too far off, we lose crisp.

Pure flavor can be extracted from produce with a juicer into liquid flavor and can be further concentrated or distilled, or the solids can be dehydrated and ground into powder. Potentially, these flavor-packed products can replace water and flour. But, of course, it's not that simple.

Juice is not just flavored water, it contains fine solid particles and compounds. Fruit juices may also contain acids, pectin and reactive enzymes that effect texture. Ground dehydrated solids may resemble flour but do not possess the gluten that will allow it to behave like milled wheat. Luckily, we are not limited to wheat flour— or even starches from grains— to produce crisp.

There are other starches that gel liquids. They are so effective that only small amounts are needed. They don't interfere with base flavors because they are odorless and colorless. The gels, when dehydrated, form flexible films that turn crisp when heated. Technically, these are called glasses.

Unlike raking leaves, glasses are fun to play with.

Ultratex is a tapioca-derived modified food starch that thickens liquids much like cornstarch, but does not require heat to activate. Adding 2-3% of Ultratex to a cold, thin liquid will instantly tighten it into a sauce. Thicker gels (5%) are quick to dehydrate and form crisp brittle films that are slightly papery.

Tapioca Maltodextrin is also derived from the cassava root. It is a mildly sweet polysaccharide. TM is best known for its ability to stabilize fats and transform them into powders. It forms slightly stickier films than Ultratex. When the two are combined, (at a rate of 18% TM to a 5% Ultratex gel) they form sturdy glasses that when baked at a high temperature during the final stage of dehydration (while they are still flexible) they make the most stable glasses, even in the presence of humidity.

Methylcellulose (A types) and Hydroxypropylmethylcellulose (E, F, and K types) also form films that dehydrate to glasses. Methocel glasses differ from Ultratex and TM in that when they are finished at a higher temp (100C), they turn from shiny and transparent, to matte and opaque.

Texturally, all of these additives produce thin, brittle crisps.
Visually, the methocel crisp looked most like a cracker, albeit,a fragile one.
It needed more bulk.
Aeration gives the illusion of bulk without actually adding any.
Methocel F types are used to create and stabilize whipped things.
Problem solved.

making a mold of autumn leaves out of silicone plastique

Juice crackers:

Bring 230g juice and 80g sugar or isomalt (isomalt is less sweet) to a full rolling boil. If the juice is not acidic, up to 10g of lemon juice can be added for flavor and balance. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely. In a small bowl, blend together 6g Methocel F50 and 8g Ultratex 8. Drop the powder blend into the center of the juice mixture. Cover the clump of powder with the blades of an immersion blender and blend until dispersed. Hydrate in the refrigerator for 4-6 hours, or overnight. With a mixer, blend until light, foamy, and opaque. Spread on silicone sheet or molds and dehydrate until film can be peeled off in one piece. Return to silicone and bake at 225F (100C) for 10-15 minutes. Immediately remove and bend or form into desired shape, supporting until it cools and hardens. Crackers can be made ahead and rebaked briefly to crisp.

To be clear, I use the term 'cracker' loosely. These are not crackers in a conventional sense— they lack flakiness. More accurately, they closely mimic the texture of a tuile or gaufrette wafer, but with the pure flavors of carrots, beets, and parsnips, un-muted by starch.

I'm dreading the acre of leaves that still need to be gathered and disposed of.
In joyful procrastination, I've created another pile of leaves in the kitchen.
The irony is not lost on me.

As always, nature inspires.

ginger pumpkin black sesame yuzu

I often get questions and comments on plating. It's not a process that I over analyze or can easily define. Composing a plate of food is just one of the many creative processes involved in cooking.

When working with a pre-conceived plating design, the challenge is in finding the right flavors and forms to flesh out the concept. Sometimes this approach works, sometimes it evolves into something else. When the flavors and textures aren't right— even when they fit the concept— the entire dish is scrapped. This happens more often than I care to admit.

Mosty, I'm working with components that I want to bring together in a dish. In this case, I had ginger pumpkin cake, sweetened cream cheese with fresh yuzu juice and zest, black sesame paste emulsified with cocoa butter, and sandy brown butter crumbs. The flavors and textures captured the rich and mysterious tones of autumn; a mood that I wanted to express on the plate.

When it came time to plate, I didn't have a clear vision of the finished dish. When this happens, I look to the forms and colors for guidance, using intuition and experience through a filter of personal aesthetics. I'd like to say that I am always mindful of the creative process, but sometimes I just play around and hope for the best. Either way, regardless of what I tried, this dish was not coming together on the plate. I needed to step back and take a break.

I woke my dog from one of his power naps and headed out for a walk. My neighbor had just taken down a birch tree in his front yard where I found him splitting logs. We chatted about the majestic birch and the splendid fires he would have. Later, I returned home with my head clear but I still had no direction for the dish. Yet, just minutes later, I was snapping the photo that you see above.

I wish that I could tell you how it came together, why decisions were made in the process, but the truth is that although my hands did the work, there was no logic or reason guiding them. Or so I thought…

When I uploaded the photo, it looked alien yet strangely familiar like something I had dreamt. "Did I really create that?" asked my left brain. The right brain replied, heckling, "Throw that log on the fire, will ya!" I recognized the voice— it was the sound of my preconscious mind cracking open to reveal the path from a crisp autumn day, a pile of pale wood and dark twigs, the promise of a fire— to a composition on a plate. It was the voice of creativity.

What is creativity and where does it come from?

Anyone who has flirted, courted, or slept with it has surely asked this question. We all want to contribute something to the world that did not exist before and carries our unique imprint. It's why we procreate and generate ideas and art. But creativity doesn't fall from the sky and land in our hands— it is the manifestation of our collected experiences, from the banal to the transcendent, that weave through our conscious and subconscious minds, gestating, waiting for the trajectory of expression in order to find new life outside of ourselves. Is it then an attempt to immortalise that which is mortal?… a longing for eternity?

According to Juan Mari Arzak, "Creativity comes from where it can". It was not an answer to a question, but an off-the-cuff remark that substantiated how an ordinary event inspired the creation of a dish. Chef Arzak's observation resonated with me because it hinted at the wonder and mystery of the elusive force, and, also because it is a simple truth— creativity does, indeed, come from where it can.

perfect apple pie

A standard of perfection is as fluid as the emotions that define and measure it. Because it is an arbitrary judgement, it evolves with time and varies from person to person, with no one being wrong.

I thought that the very first apple pie that I made was perfect because it looked like the picture in the cookbook. It came out of the oven all golden and full of promise. Everything but its appearance was a disappointment.

I had piled the apples high in the center and carefully draped the top crust over them, but when I cut into it, the top crust collapsed into the cavity that was left by the shrunken apples. And although the crust was crisp on the outside– inside, it was pasty from the steam created by the cooking apples (even though I had cut vents in it). The filling, too, was a disaster. I had used the wrong apples (this was before I understood the difference between a cooking apple and an eating apple) and had sliced them too thin, causing them to break down into mush. And even though I had followed the recipe precisely, the juices turned into starchy glop.

In all of my subsequent attempts at achieving my vision of pie perfection, I came to the realization that tossing a bunch of ingredients into a sealed crust, with no way of adjusting the texture and flavor as it cooked, was a leap of faith.

At one point, I thought that I had found the perfect apple pie when I tasted Tarte Tatin: crisp, flaky pastry; crisp-tender caramelized apples, cooked only in butter and sugar. It set a new standard in texture and flavor, but it wasn't really a pie– not in the American-as-apple-pie sense.

Later, I discovered that blind-baking the bottom crust ensured that it would be crisp and flaky all the way through, and that caramelizing the apples separately allowed me full control of their texture, But then there was the problem of the top crust. Not wanting to compromise the perfectly cooked apples with further cooking, I topped the compressed apple filling with pre-baked streusel crumbs. By my standards, I had created the perfect apple pie, but it was a Dutch apple pie– not the double-crusted, golden-domed, All-American apple pie.

I don't know what took me so long to figure out that the top crust could also be pre-baked and then 'glued' to the bottom crust to produce the iconic form with all of the components cooked separately to their respective states of perfection, but I'm glad that I did. It reinforces my belief that techniques are sometimes perpetuated because of tradition, not because they are perfect, and in the search for perfection– everything needs to be reexamined.

turnip brown mascarpone lemon balm

raw turnip

brown mascarpone

smoked salt

scent of lemon balm

People think I'm quirky when I tell them to listen to their food.

I only mean that mindful observation allows an ingredient to reveal itself.

A newborn turnip, freshly plucked from the earth, spoke to me of the goodness of simplicity.

It's a common language these days, spoken by the corn and tomatoes alike.

I thought that it might want to be something else, but it said otherwise.

Behold my perfection, it said.

But a raw turnip on a plate does not a dish make.

Concept should not supersede content.

(isn't that what went wrong with nouvelle cuisine?)

I once asked an artist how they knew when a painting was done.

The reply was, "You'll know it's done when it's finished".

I asked a chef the same thing and got a similar reply.

But isn't that subjective?

One person revels in embellishment and layers.

Another wants things stripped to their essence.

Is there a wrong or right?

A chef, like an artist, must engage the senses and make an emotional connection.

Art enters the psyche and becomes part of our soul.

Food penetrates the body and becomes part of our cells.

Oh, the responsibility.

Back to the turnip…

It spoke, and I listened.

I listened to the mascarpone as well. It told me to explore a hidden potential. It wanted to be a more complex version of itself.

Lemon balm had no such aspirations. It only wanted to lend its fragrance to exalt the turnip. Such a humble herb.

If I say that I tasted this dish, that would be inaccurate.

I did not taste the lemon balm, yet its enveloping scent was a vital part of the dish.

I experienced the dish and had to ask if there was anything left to add or take away.

That's when I knew it was done.

playing with asparagus

What do you see when you look at asparagus?

the winter garden

Exactly one month ago, I took a walk on a snowy day to pick sage. I was making butternut squash soup for a client and toasting a garnish of tiny cubes of gingerbread brioche in brown butter. I knew the soup would need an herbal note to break the monotony of sweet and spice. I thought of sage; the only thing harvestable in my dormant winter garden.

Leaving the comfort of my warm kitchen on that cold day, even for a short jaunt, required effort. My psyche needed psyching and my body needed insulating. Motivated by the promise of soup, I went about the ritual of piling on the layers; the whole time longing for those other months and the seamless transition from indoors to outdoors. At times like that, I question the wisdom of living in a climate that robs me of that freedom, but Home is more complicated than weather and geography.

And so, on that snowy cold day in January, I set out to the garden, psyched and insulated. My intention was to make a quick exit and a quicker return, but I am easily distracted.

Snow has a way of slowing down time. Everything is muted and blurred, like going under anesthesia. Even the pain of cold eventually subsides. The act of walking on ten inches of ice-crusted snow feels awkward and surreal; every step calculated. That was the first distraction.

The next was the compost heap, which I neglect as soon as the weather turns cold, letting time and microorganisms do their job. Making compost is a lot like making lasagna–it involves the layering of carbon (dried material) with nitrogen (fresh material), controlling moisture, then letting it cook. And cooking it was; while everything else around it was white and frozen, the heap remained dark and soft. Even in the nose-numbing cold, I could smell warm humus–dark, rich, bittersweet, and mysterious–like the heart of the earth. It stood in stark contrast to the astringent and metallic scent of snow.

Satisfied that the compost was happy, I turned to the stand of behemoth pines that live behind a pair of sheds on my property. Those trees have been the bane of my gardening existence, their imposing height and girth forces the better part of my garden to grow in their shadow. I've considered cutting them all down, but I knew that I would regret the loss of their scented boughs and the void of green in the dead of winter. Having just removed my Christmas tree, I was missing its scent, so I broke off a few boughs to bring indoors.

I located the sage by their flagging tips that stuck out of the snow. I love the word "sage" and its connotations to age and wisdom. It perfectly fits this plant that is at least twenty years old and has been transplanted numerous times, yet it always adapts and still thrives. I used the broken ends of the pine to break through the ice that surrounded the sage, picked what I needed and headed back to the house.

At this point, you may be wondering why I am telling you about these ordinary events. If anything, they are a map that led me to what happened next:

I raised my hand to my nose to smell the sage, but I could only smell the oil and resin of pine on my gloves.

That's it, that's the climax… I expected to smell an herb, but instead I smelled pine and that simple act set off a synaptic storm that connected the two and made them interchangeable.

I've played with the flavor of pine and other conifers before, but with some trepidation. Until that moment, I thought of it as a distinct flavor in its own category; neither herb nor vegetable. In the context of an herb, it became approachable– friendly even. This revelation set off a month-long exploration that produced a dozen posts about conifers and extended to other aromatic trees. It took me on a journey through time into the history of salt, cod, beans, and spirits. It allowed me to revisit flavors from my childhood in a new light. It prompted me to delve deeper into the fascinating and complex world of aroma compounds. It introduced me to a delicious new product. It helped me to face the dire situation of seafood and use my power as a consumer and chef to implement change. It was a true inspiration.

Recently, I've received a number of emails asking about inspiration and how to acquire it, to which I rarely know how to respond. I apologize if my replies are inadequate. I am no authority on this, but I will say that inspiration is not exclusive and does not belong to the realm of the creative elite. Like grains of pollen that float through the atmosphere unnoticed, unless you are sensitive to them, they will not effect you. Sensitizing ourselves is simply being open to the myriad ideas, thoughts, and experiences that we encounter at any given moment and making a connection and expansion to what we already know about ourselves, our interests, and our perceived world.

I want to leave this exploration of conifers with a dish that is inspired by that significant walk to my garden on that snowy day. I hope that it reflects my connection to the earth and all of the wonderful food and inspiration that it provides– even while dormant in the dead of winter.

chicken skate corn coconut

Imagine a morsel of tender, sweet, flaky fish. Now imagine it encrusted with a crackly-crisp crust of chicken skin.

chicken-fried skate

silver queen corn

coconut

cocoa nib

sea bean

That was the image that I kept fixed in my mind (and palate) and the inspiration for the chicken skin croquant.

In the past, I've wrapped and glued raw chicken skin to another protein. The problem with that method is controlling the cooking time and temperature required to produce a crisp skin and a properly cooked filling. Sometimes these are incompatible.

Then there is the issue of wrapping, which leaves areas of overlapping skin that result in pockets of flabby fat.

The control, I decided, would be to pre-cook the skin. But then how to apply it? Grinding was a logical step, but I wasn't looking for a crumb coating. I was seeking a crispy crust–one that did not require deep frying or prolonged heating.

I needed something that would cook quickly, fuse the ground skin, and contribute to the texture and flavor. Sugar fit the bill and I liked the ideal of a bruleed coating, but the amount needed would render it too sweet. Mildly sweet isomalt, which behaves like sugar and quickly melts to the hard-crack stage turned out to be the solution. The addition of Tapioca Maltodextrin further improved the texture and helped with the bonding.

The last silver queen corn of the season, when put through a juicer and heated, contains natural starch that quickly transforms into a velvety sauce. All that is needed is a burst of lime juice and pinch of salt to balance the sweetness.

Coconut and corn is a marriage made in heaven.

Cocoa nibs add complexity and a hint of bitterness.

Salty sea beans + chicken of the sea = delicious.

puff pastry

Flour. Butter. Water. Salt. No leavening. Or is there?

When these four ingredients are combined into a homogeneous dough, then rolled out and baked, you end up with a cracker or flatbread. Not much rise there.

Blend the same ingredients together but stop while the butter is still discernible– about the size of peas. Now roll out and bake. You have a pate brisee or a short, flaky pie crust with unevenly puffed layers that may have doubled in height.

Now, take the same four ingredients, blend the flour, water and salt to make a dough. Evenly layer the butter throughout the dough through a series of rolling out and folding. Stop when you have made 6 "turns", resulting in 1459 alternating layers of fat and starch. After a final rolling and baking, you are left with pate feuilletee or puff pastry. This time, the finished pastry leaving the oven has risen up to 6 times in volume from the raw dough that went in.

Three products…sharing identical ingredients in similar proportions…with significantly different results. Do you know why?

Lacking chemical leavening, the release of gases is not responsible for the differences between the three pastry products. And with the absence of yeast, it cannot be attributed to fermentation.

What caused the puff pastry to rise to glorious heights and the pie crust to puff to a lesser degree is the steam created by the melted butter. As the butter melts and boils, the gluten matrix in the dough hardens, trapping the pockets of steam. The degree of rise in the three products varies with the distribution of fat and starch.

Understanding this was an epiphany. So was grasping the unfolding of egg proteins. And the destruction of sugar to make caramel. And so on.

These were my AH-HAA moments. They allowed me to analyse mistakes and to not only correct them, but to control the outcome. They liberated me from bondage to recipes, and with this freedom came a broader one: the freedom to create.

Modern cooking places an emphasis on science, when, in fact, chemistry has been at play throughout the history of food and cooking. Does a strong knowledge of food science make us good cooks? If that were true then scientists, by right, would all be chefs.

What about technique? Consider the baker who gets up at 3 AM every morning to bake bread. After some time, he can turn out hundreds of perfect loaves even while half-asleep. He may even have a grasp on the chemistry of his craft through extended observation of cause and effect. His talent and dedication may move him onto the saute line, where through repetition he learns to turn out a perfectly cooked piece of fish every time.

But would he know what to do with a salsify? Would he even know what to serve it with?

At ICC, Jordi Butron of Espai Sucre gave a presentation about the process of creating desserts. A lot of what he said resonated with me. In it, he stated (from my notes) "Pastry is techniques…but technique has to service flavor. Technique is easy–it only requires repetition, but a library of flavors takes many years to acquire."

As a baker, I have made puff pastry countless times. Through muscle memory, I could even make it while half-asleep. Because of my understanding of steam pockets and gluten matrixes, I was able to effectively teach it to my students, passing on the AH-HAA moments. My familiarity with this product allows me to play and ask questions:

Why butter? (because it is fat and for it's flavor)

What else is flavored fat? (oils..but they won't work, they're liquid and here, the fat needs to start as a solid)

What else is solid, flavored fat? (pork fat, bacon fat, foie, cheese…)

Cheese? Which cheese? (needs to be spreadable and have a high fat content…a triple cream)

Saint Andre? Boursault? Brillat-Savarin? (no…too subtle for the flavor to come through)

l'Explorateur? (a triple cream, assertive flavor…yes, it will work)

That is how I have come to make l'Explorateur puff pastry; a product that pleases me.

Will it please everyone? Is it ground-breaking? Life-altering? No. No. And no.

It is simply a token of where I'm at as a cook/baker at this moment in time and a synthesization of what I know about technique, food science and my own palate.

Do these things make me a better cook? I'd like to think so. What I do know for certain is that by relying on their guidance, I am free to contemplate and to think about food; what it is…what it can be.

And that, I believe, is the starting point for innovation.

pea soup

When I tell people that I’ve been cooking since childhood, they invariable ask how I remain interested and enthusiastic about the preparation of food. I could go on citing reasons for days–don’t even get me started–but at the very top of the list is what lures me out of bed each morning:

It is the power of transformation.

Transformation is what hooked me on baking. It taught me the effect of fire and water and the role that science plays in the kitchen. Even now, I am still amazed at what butter, flour, sugar and eggs can become.

Outside of the kitchen, the theme of transformation is the common thread that unites my other interests. When I look at a raw carrot, it is no different than how I view a blank canvas, a length of fabric, or the lens of a camera. My eyes see what it is, my imagination tells me what it can be, my hands make it be.

The journey from abstract idea to concrete product is fueled by constant dialog about possibilities and limitations. The road is not always straight or direct, and I often take detours, get lost, and crash along the way. But the joy is in the journey– the manipulation of infinite variables, the witnessing of and participation in the transformation.

The transformation that I am concerned with here is not the kind that happens in the kitchen, but at the table.

A clear, steaming hot consomme of fresh peas made by gelatin filtration is poured into a bowl of carefully arranged elements: a perfect raw oyster, a lacy mantle of roasted peanut oil and cocoa butter, mango pearls, and the flower, stems and leaves of pea shoots.

The initial effect, and most dramatic, is the melting of the roasted peanut-cocoa butter lace. Peas and peanuts are both legumes and share many aroma compounds. The emulsification reverts back to a fragrant oil that forms droplets on the surface and lends the soup an enticing aroma and flavor. As the consomme level rises, the pea shoots soften and float, the leaves open and unfurl. These add texture to the soup and reinforce the flavor of the consomme. The pearls dislodge and swirl to the bottom of the bowl, waiting to be scooped up and burst their bright mango juice in the mouth. The oyster coddles in the heat of the consomme and is intended to be the last voluptuous bite.

playing with ricotta

Some days, I go to the playground, looking for fun, but find that it is deserted. I can see my good friends, Ideas and Inspiration, lurking in the shadows; just out of reach. As much as I coax and cajole them, they refuse to come out to play.
Then there are days, like today, when they are already there waiting.

This morning, while enjoying my breakfast of ricotta, fruit, and coffee, I was struck by the how the flavor of ricotta mingled with the coffee. I began to wonder if it was possible to unite these flavors before they hit the palate.
Ideas told me that this might be achieved by marinating the ricotta in coffee. Obediently, I brewed a fresh cup and stirred in some ricotta. A few hours later, I was dismayed to find that there was only a faint flavor of the coffee in the ricotta.
I was about to give up hope, when Inspiration suggested that because the ricotta was now a few days old, it had already ‘set’ and was not open to absorbing any more liquid, but that a fresh batch would still be porous. It seemed plausible, and because it is quick and easy, I made more ricotta.
While the fresh batch drained for the requisite 5 minutes, I brewed a fresh cup of coffee and stirred in the still- warm ricotta. This time, after only 20 minutes, the ricotta had taken on a rich brown color and tasted distinctly of coffee.
Before the ricotta cooled, I tried other flavors:

coffee caramel raspberry

Moving to the savory side, I had on hand some gelatin-filtered tomato sauce that I had infused with basil and garlic.
This tasted just like pizza!

I was having a great time playing with my friends (they get so wound up), but I had other things to do (like work). They did, however, convince me to try one more thing with ricotta before abandoning it for the day: ricotta caramel.
I cooked some sugar with a bit of water until it turned dark amber, then stirred in some well-drained ricotta. I had expected it to turn out hard and brittle, but instead it was soft and chewy, interspersed with flecks of curd. Interesting texture…more play for another day.